


Today Is A Good Day!

by OniGil



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Banter, Fluff and Angst, Heartbreak, Implied Body Horror, M/M, MTMTE 35 Bad Future, Rebellion, shadowplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title issued by the Functionist Council.</p>
<p>Every oppressive brainwashing face-mutilating regime needs its doomed freedom fighters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today Is A Good Day!

**Author's Note:**

> MTMTE 35 was one of those issues that just sticks with you, and I'm a sucker for a crapsack dystopia, and I also have a one-track mind that will always return to Drift and Wing. And so: what became of our favorite guttermech in the new now?

            Cybertron: now. And as usual, Drift is fighting a losing battle.

            “Any last words?” the Functionary says, leveling his arm cannons. Drift sees the flash of movement behind him.

            “Goodbye,” he says.

            _Slikt_. The glowing-blue tip of a sword comes bursting out of the Functionary’s chest. The guy spits static and topples over. His partner wastes the rest of his life gaping at his corpse. It’s a very short rest of his life because Drift jumps him and turns his own blaster on his face. He kicks the smoking shell away and looks up.

            “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

            “Maybe if you weren’t always getting into trouble I wouldn’t always have to come to your rescue,” Wing says, tucking his swords away.

            “Why are you complaining? I thought you liked playing the hero.” Drift helps him drag the two Functionaries into the alley and behind a pile of scrap metal. “Come on. Better get going.”

            Wing stops him at the mouth of the alley, brushes a kiss across his mouth. “You be more careful,” he says. “I might not always be around to save you.”

 

* * *

 

_Cybertron: back then. And as usual, Drift is fighting a losing battle. Starving, grimy, injured, and pursued. Yep: that’s basically his existence._

_“Halt,” a voice calls from behind him._

Does anyone ever “halt?” _he wonders, and doesn’t halt. There’s a service tunnel coming up and if he can just get to it, he can lose them._ No one _catches him underground._ Ever _. It’s the only way he’s survived this long._

_But this time he’s not so lucky. This time blasterfire gets him in the legs and back and he crashes to the ground. It’s not a fatal injury, but it hurts like the Pit and it’s good enough to stop him running._

_Which pretty much makes it a fatal injury anyway._

_Big hands grab him by the arms and shoulders and haul him upright._

_“Another damn knock-off,” one of the Functionaries says. “Call it in.”_

_“I’m not a knock-off!” Drift snarls, thrashing just enough to get an arm free. He jams the heel of his hand up under the chin of the guy on his right, cutting him off as he goes for his comm. But the Functionary on the left slams him up against a wall, holding up there by one hand on his throat. The other hand shoves the business end of his blaster up under Drift’s chin._

_“Know what? You’re not even worth the fuel we’ll burn hauling you in.”_

_But the enforcer doesn’t shoot him. He coughs, and warm energon splatters across Drift’s face. Drift drops to the ground, his injured legs crumpling beneath him, and the Functionary falls on him: dead weight. He’s gone. Drift shoves the body away, and when he looks up, the second Functionary hits the wall, two glowing blue blades buried in his chest. The mech holding the swords wrenches them out, quick, efficient, and tucks them away behind his back. He looks down at Drift._

_“Can you stand?”_

_“Who the frag are you?”_

_The mech reaches down to help him up. Flight-class. White armor. Gold optics. “I’m with the Circle of Light.”_

_Drift yanks his arms away. “The terrorists?”_

_The mech gives him a little smile. “I’m as much a terrorist as you are a knock-off.”_

_“I’m not a—!”_ Smile _. Drift shuts his mouth._

_“What’s your name?” the jet asks._

_“Batch code 622-S38…” The jet gives him this Look. Not a harsh one. Just meaningful. Drift trails off. “Oh. Drift. My name’s Drift.”_

_“I’m Wing,” the jet says. “And we’d better go. They’re alerted when a Functionary dies.”_

_“Go where?” Drift asks._

_“You can go wherever you were going before they stopped you,” Wing says. “Unless…”_

_“Unless what?” Drift prompts after a moment of Wing looking at him in that searching way._

_“You’re a fighter,” Wing says._

_“I’m a survivor,” Drift corrects._

_“Either way. We could use your help.”_

_“What, join the Circle? Get a kill-on-sight order put on me?”_

_“It seems that way already,” Wing points out, looking down at the dead Functionaries. “At the very least, we could hide you. You’d be safe.”_

_Drift can hear the sirens coming their way. A part of him is ready to say he’s been doing fine so far. But that’s a precarious situation that’s been getting worse and worse. Security is getting tighter and tighter. The Council keeps thinking of new ways to keep bots in line. Drift may have escaped getting “deported” with the rest of the “knock-offs” this far, but it’s getting harder. More dangerous._

_Can’t hurt to at least check it out._

_“Lead the way,” he says._

 

* * *

 

            It would be a lot easier to get away from the Functionaries in altmode. Unfortunately, this is a social inclusion zone for fliers: the roads, such as there are, aren’t suited to grounders. Wing keeps having to give him a lift between levels, but he’s not strong enough to carry both of them all the way out of here.

            “Bet you wish you’d left me behind now,” Drift says, double-checking his layout map of the area. (The inclusion zones are _that_ segregated, enough that the Council doesn’t even want outsiders to know how to navigate. They had gone through a lot to get the map. One of their more memorable adventures.) Wing could have come alone. They hadn’t even expected a fight, just a meeting with other rebels, but somewhere along the line they’d been betrayed. Their clandestine spreading of subversive intel had turned into a free-for-all when the Functionaries showed up. Probably would have been better if Drift had stayed behind at the current home base. Alone, Wing could just fly out of here.

            “Only when you say stupid things like that,” Wing says.

            “Didn’t have to bring me along. Don’t pretend I’m not slowing you down.”

            “You know I’d miss the banter.”

            “You wouldn’t have angry Functionaries hanging on your tailfins, for one thing.”

            Wing ducks blaster fire. “A minor setback.”

            They skid around a corner and Drift snarls at him. “They’re getting closer.”

            “We can still make it.”

            “Go! You can fly out of here in a second!”

            Wing reaches out and gives his hand a squeeze, even as they keep running. “I’d still come back for you. We’re partners, Drift. That’s what partners do.”

 

* * *

 

_Wing takes him to the same service tunnel he’d been aiming for in the first place. Drift knows the Underground pretty well—has to, to survive without being found—but there’s still places even he doesn’t know, paths he’s never taken. It’s a labyrinth, and the Functionist Council has fewer eyes and ears down here than anywhere else. A good place for fugitives._

_They get a few minutes into the tunnels. Then Wing turns to him._

_“I’m sorry,” he says._

_“For what?” Drift starts to ask, but Wing moves, and then there’s nothing._

_He wakes up itching for a fight and he’s online in an instant, ready to struggle out of his bindings. Except there are no bindings. He’s on a recharge slab, and Wing is sitting next to him. The jet hops backwards to get out of range of Drift’s first wild swing._

_“I’m sorry!” he says. “But you’re safe now. I promise, no harm will come to you here.”_

_“You knocked me out!”_

_“We had to make sure,” Wing says. “They’re coming up with new methods of surveillance every day. We had to be sure you weren’t a spy, whether you knew it or not. But you’re clean, so…”_

_“You_ knocked me out _?!”_

_“I’m sorry, but we have to be careful.”_

_Drift grudgingly knows he’s right. There’s no such thing as_ too _paranoid, not these days._

_“I promised to take you to Dai Atlas as soon as you woke up,” Wing says. “He’s the one who decides whether you can fight with us.”_

_“I’m not sure I_ want _to fight with you,” Drift snaps, still grumpy over being knocked out._

_“Do you know why we’re wanted by the Council? Why they want to stop us?” Drift mutely shakes his head. Wing reaches up and unhooks the sword from his back. “Because of this.”_

_Drift leans in for a better look. First glance? Just a sword. A big one, definitely not too practical in the sort of stealth urban combat the Circle’s known for, and yet he’s seen others wearing a similar blade today. It as a blue gem set just where the hilt meets the blade, and writing carved into the blade. He can’t read it._

_“It’s a Great Sword,” Wing says. “There aren’t many left. The Council would destroy them all if they could.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Their memories,” Wing says._

_“I don’t get it. Swords don’t have memories.”_

_“These do. It’s not just a sword. It retains an echo of everyone who carries it: their names, their personalities…”_

_“And their memories.”_

_“Each of these swords contains memories of our past. Of the time before the Functionists.” Wing smiles ruefully at his face. “I know. I barely remember it either. But_ this _does, and that’s what they want to destroy. They want to erase any version of our history where they don’t hold power.”_

_“Why do you carry it around? Why don’t you just hide them?”_

_“Because people need to see them. They’ve become a symbol of everything the Circle fights for. And our people deserve the truth.”_

_Drift reaches out gingerly to touch the blade. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but he almost can feel something. Something huge and ancient that he doesn’t fully understand, but something Wing cares about. Something he’d die for._

_“Isn’t that worth fighting for?” Wing whispers._

_Drift nods, slowly. “Yeah.”_

 

* * *

 

            “The wall!” Wing cries, pointing. They’ve finally reached the edge of this social inclusion zone.

            “Ready?” Drift asks. Wing dips behind him. His arms wrap firmly around Drift’s waist.

            “Hold on!”

            With a roar of Wing’s powerful engines, Drift’s feet leave the ground. He squeezes his optic shutters closed as his fuel tank lurches: Wing has never, ever let him fall, but he has no time to be gentle.

            Blasterfire erupts again in the night air, and Drift flinches as his legs are scored. There’s a sharp cry in his ear and Wing jerks. Drift’s gyros spin as they tumble from the air. The ground rushes up and Drift’s armor scrapes and squeals as he skids and rolls across the ground until he smashes to a halt against a building. He picks himself up with a groan and looks for Wing. The flier had taken the brunt of the crash; he lies unmoving a distance off, his wings crumpled and spitting sparks. Drift races to his side.

            “Wing. Get up! Wing!”

            Wing groans faintly as Drift turns him onto his side. His optics flicker.

            “Wing, come on, you have to get up!” Drift glances behind them. The crash’s momentum had brought them a good distance from the wall, but the Functionaries will catch up any minute now.

            Wing groans again, his optics coming dimly online as he struggles onto one elbow.

            “Drift,” he murmurs. “Go.”

            “I’m not going anywhere,” Drift says, pulling on him. His throat threatens to lock up. “Come _on_ , Wing!”

            “You can make it if you transform.” Wing reaches back to pull the Great Sword from his back. “Take this and go _._ ”

            Drift’s vents hitch in a sob. “I’m not leaving without you!”

            “This is more important than any one mech,” Wing insists, wrapping Drift’s fingers around the hilt. “Please, Drift! Do this for me!” He uses his free hand to pull Drift into a hungry kiss. Then he gives Drift a hard shove as he drags himself to his knees. His expression hovers between conviction and despair. “I’ll hold them off. Go!”

            Drift slots the Sword onto his back with one hand, reaching for Wing with the other, because he has to touch him one more time, there’s something important Drift has to tell him.

            “Wing, I—”

            He’s interrupted by more blaster fire and the sight of Functionaries charging from the direction of the wall. Wing barks at him again. “ _Go!_ ”

            The last thing Drift sees as he folds into altmode, the unspoken words burning his throat, is the blue glow of Wing’s swords as he stands his ground against the attackers.

 

* * *

 

_The first time Wing kisses him Drift nearly goes into Spark arrest._

_Not that Wing isn’t beautiful. Not that Drift hasn’t been looking at him, watching the way he moves, the gentle slide of his skirting panels, the warmth of his optics, the way he seems to have a particular smile for Drift,_ just _for Drift. Not that Drift hasn’t wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to touch him, to wrap Wing up in his arms and hide him from the world like something too pure and precious for their ugly present. Not that his Spark doesn’t pulse a little faster and a little warmer every time Wing’s around._

_But Wing is forged, and Drift is constructed cold, and there are some things that are just too deeply engrained into his worldview to shake loose. Drift’s a fake. An imitation, a perversion, not meant to exist, and even if he weren’t, Wing’s flight-class, and Drift’s speed-class, and the two don’t mix._

_That’s the sort of Functionist ideology they’re fighting against, but it’s been beaten into him enough that it’s hard to shake off that kind of thinking. So when Wing leans in and touches their lips together, Drift jerks away like he’s been shot, his biolights flickering in panic._

_“I’m sorry,” Wing gasps. “I didn’t mean to… I thought that you…” His EM field pulls in close and tight to his plating, not before Drift feels the hurt in it. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood.”_

_“It’s not that,” Drift bursts out hastily, because it looks as though Wing’s going to run. “It’s not you. But Wing, I’m… I’m just a knock-off. How could… how could you want me…?”_

_Wing puts his hands on either side of Drift’s face. The way he’s looking at Drift feels like little fizzy bubbles in his fuel tank. Drift’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Like he’s not a knock-off, like he’s someone worth admiring._

_“How could I not?” Wing whispers._

_Drift has no answer for that. Wing edges forward, importunate, and Drift takes this chance, whatever crazy dream he’s being offered, because this crazy dream is better than the world they live in. He presses his mouth against Wing’s, and his partner gives a little sigh. Drift pulls him closer like he never wants to let go again, and lets the dream take him away for a little while._

_So they live, and they fight, and the times in between they hold on to each other as tight as they can to stop the world from sweeping them apart, and this is the closest to “happy” that Drift has ever been. It’s a hard life, and maybe it is a losing battle, but it’s one Drift is willing to see through. There’s battles, and bombings and killings and spies, there’s a great, faceless, implacable government tightening the noose around them, but as long as Drift’s holding Wing’s hand, he knows it’s the right way to go out._

* * *

 

            Drift keeps fighting, there’s just… one less thing to fight for. The world seems darker now, his shoulders heavier with the weight of the Great Sword between them. There are words he didn’t get to say, so many things he should have told Wing when he had the chance. The odds are low that he’ll ever get that chance again.

            Low, but not zero. He freezes in place—new paintjob, high-traffic area, evening shadows as camouflage against the ever-present eyes of the Council—when he sees a white jet moving through the crowd. His first thought is that it’s Wing. His second is that it can’t be: it must be another of his frame type. Because Wing is either dead or a prisoner, and he certainly wouldn’t be walking blithely around in plain sight in any case. His third is that—it’s _Wing_. He knows it down the center of his Spark: he knows how Wing walks, how he looks, the glow of his optics, the movements of his audial fins, the sway of his skirting panels. And this is _Wing._

            And he’s smiling.

            Drift ducks his head and maneuvers through the crowd, letting the flow bring him nearer without attracting attention—all things Wing had taught him for going about unnoticed as a wanted fugitive. The closer he gets the more certain he is. That’s Wing, every piece of him, even his EM field.

            Nobody looks twice when Drift grabs the jet’s arm and gives him a quick sideways yank into an alley. Drift drags him around a corner, away from spying optics, and puts his hands on either side of Wing’s face, just to be sure. Yes. It’s him, down to the tiniest details.

            “Wing! Holy Primus, don't scare me like that! I thought you were dead!”

            Wing’s expression doesn’t change. The smile is wide and bright and cheerful. “My serial code is A23JO11191, personal designation Sunstrike,” he says. “You must have me confused with someone else. There are approximately twenty-three thousand courier-class models. Would you like a message delivered?”

            Drift grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Wing! Wing, snap out of it, it's me! Drift! You know me!”

            Wing keeps smiling. His tone is sickeningly polite. “My records indicate that you are a first-time customer. Please provide your habitation block number for easier service in the future.”

            “No,” Drift breathes. It’s like someone grabs his Spark and twists. He draws Wing closer, staring pleadingly into his face. “No, Wing, it's _me_ , it's Drift. Don't you remember me?! The Circle? Your Sword? Any of it? Wing!”

            “If you prefer to use my personal please remain where you are, the Functionist Council has dispatched enforcers to join you shortly designation, it is Sunstrike.”

            “Wait, what?! What did you say?!”

            “If you prefer to use my personal designation, it is Sunstrike. Would you like a message delivered?”

            Terror settles in, icing over Drift’s Spark. He jerks his hands away like Wing is contagious, and steps back. “What did they do to you?!”

            Wing keeps smiling, like he’s glad someone asked. “The Functionist Council has made me better able to perform my intended function efficiently and cheerfully.”

            “Stop smiling! Why are you smiling?!”

            “Today is a good day,” Wing chirped. “Tomorrow will be even better!”

            Drift grabs Wing's face between his hands again. “Stop it, _stop it_ , let him go! Wing... I know you're in there. I know you can hear me!” He presses his forehead to Wing’s and whispers, “I'll get you back. I'll find out how to help you, I swear!”

            “I do not require assistance at this time. Would you like a message delivered?”

            Drift can hear the sirens. “Yeah. Yeah, I've got a message. Tell the Council that I'm gonna rip them apart with my own hands.”

            He wrenches away from the Wing who isn’t quite Wing and the changeless smile etched into his face. It’s harder than he expected to turn away, with the three little words he wanted to say still bubbling like acid in his throat.

            “I’ll come back for you, Wing,” he whispers harshly. “We’re partners. That’s what partners do.”

* * *

 


End file.
